Shadows in the Dark
by Rabia
Summary: The story of Baldor, son of Brego, the second king of The Mark; who vowed to walk The Paths of the Dead and did not return.


This is the story of Baldor (Eldest son on Brego, second king of The Mark) who, on the night of the completion of Meduseld, swore to walk 'The Paths of the Dead' and did not return.

**Disclaimer:** All named characters belong to Tolkien.  
**Feedback:** Yes, please.

Thank you Joey, for beta reading this.

**Shadows in the Dark**

It had been dark when he rose. Even now there was scarcely enough light for him to see by as he saddled his horse and made ready for the journey. He had said he would do this, and he would. He wished no ceremony or farewell. He had even forbidden his brother to see him off, choosing to leave with without any fuss or words. Baldor wasn't going to deal with false worries or showy good-byes.

He ran his hands over the flanks of the beast, checking her over one last time. Patted her neck firmly and checked the girth of the saddle, tightened the buckle a notch…

"Why are you doing this?"

He whirled round to find his sister standing behind him, her face pale, a worn green shawl thrown over her shoulders.

"You're up early." He turned back to the horse, pretending to fiddle with the bridle.

"Well it's kind of difficult to sleep when your brother is riding off to his doom," she snapped.

"Go back to bed, little sister," he said, flatly.

"Why are you doing this?"

When he showed no reaction she continued, her voice flinty now "What is it about you and that, which is forbidden? You never could take no for an answer! And now you're just going to ride off without thought or care for what will happen to you? You know father won't say anything, he loves you too much to go against your will. Aldor worries, and yet he would go with you if you bade him to do so. Neither of them will tell you what a fool you are being!" Her voice cut through the silent air, shattering it. "Well I will not stand for this. The Paths are forbidden so why do you say you will walk them? Why don't you just turn back and admit for once in your life that you were wrong? Do you think people are going to hold you to some drunken vow?"

She stopped abruptly, her face flushed. Baldor turned on her, his own temper flared to match hers.

"So that is what people think!" He sneered, "That this is some drunken foolery? You ask why. Bema! Sister, can't you see? I have been fighting all my life for our people. For this," he gestured to the Golden Hall behind them in the gloom, "So we don't have to fear the enemy. I have fought Men and Orcs and far fouler things just for this to be possible! And now I am supposed to run from these 'Paths' because some old wives tale says they are forbidden? If that is so then what's the point? Why spend every day in living memory driving the enemy from the Wold if I still fear the shadow from the mountain? If I still can't ride freely in my own people's lands? It's all or nothing. And there is nothing. Nothing to fear."

It was his turn to pause now. Pause to look at her pale face in the darkness.

"I'm sorry," he said, simply. "Do you understand now?"  
She bit her lip, tears streaming silently from reddened eyes. She nodded, stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder and kiss his forehead. Then, without a sound, she ran past him up the steps to the Golden Hall.

Baldor felt sure he could feel her eyes on his back as he left. He didn't look back. His teeth squeezed together in determination. He would return, and put an end to her misplaced worries. 

Grey light had crept over the horizon. Grey to match the barren landscape, to fit with the cold air around him. He rode tall and proud. His helm was gilded, his belt set with fine stones that glinted, even in this feeble light. Baldor rode, his head high.

Even as the grim shadow of the mountain loomed before him his mind dwelt on other things. Thoughts of nights past distracted him from the grizzled landscape. _That_ night hung in his memory. Mead had run like water that night. There had been music and dancing to celebrate the completion of Meduseld. The men had been carefree, the food good. They were celebrating victory and peace. Everyone had been so happy. He remembered his father smiling, his rich laugh. His father never laughed…

Then someone (had it been one of his men?) had mentioned The Paths. That they were forbidden to pass. How many times had he thought of that road beneath the mountain? Thought half seriously about showing those that feared it their own stupidity at fleeing ash and dust? A whim? Hah! It had been quietly irritating him for years. It was just that the night of the banquet all of his musings had finally come together to form a decision. He had said, nay, vowed that he would take that road, and he would.

An unconscious frown crossed his face and he nudged the horse beneath him to go faster, onwards to the mountain.

The mare reared again, almost throwing him. He cursed, pulling at the reins and trying to calm her as she pawed at the ground uncomfortably. She shied away from the rock, which stuck up from the ground as if the earth itself had spat it out in disgust. A foul spire, marking the road he must take. He tried again to get his horse to move, causing her to backstep, snorting, ears flat against her head in protest. He sighed, irritated, slipping from the saddle to coax her past. Her eyes showed white at the edges and she dragged her feet reluctantly. Even so, he managed to calm her enough to get her to pass the ugly rock and continue.

He remounted, following the narrow road. It was worse now, both sides closed in by sheer cliffs of rock, only the path ahead to go on. And it was quiet here. So quiet. Even in the reluctantly breaking dawn not a sound could be heard of beast or bird. As if they too shunned this place…

He chided himself sharply as soon as the thought entered his head. He was getting no better than the superstitious soldiers. As if creatures had any reason fear this road. More likely it was the lack of trees and barren landscape that kept them away. His mare? Well, she was used to riding in an eored with other horses and besides, his father had always said she was high-strung. Yes, that was it. No cause for alarm.

He glared at the walls of rock defiantly, as if to show them he knew what they were trying to do, and it wasn't working. For a moment it felt as if the rock glared back at him…

He came to a stop abruptly as his horse stopped short before the Door. Door? A rend in the cliff more like. Symbols and crude pictures scratched into the rock surrounding it, depicting odd rituals and spells that had long lost all meaning in this world.

He looked through the Door into the blackness beyond, and in spite of himself felt an icy feeling of dread trickle down his spine. It was foul. And dark. Not the close soft blackness of night, but a harsh, thick darkness that seemed to flow and pull within the mountain walls. Children's stories told round the hearth at night to tantalise and terrify, the same stories made more terrible, told this time around a camp fire by soldiers; none of them could begin to match the fear that radiated from the sheer blackness beyond the Door.

He dismounted without thinking, eyes still fixed on the opening, looking inside as if he could see beyond the darkness. As if he could see…something. Something that lurked inside the mountain, something that struck fear into the hearts of men who had faced all other evils. Something was waiting for him, looking back at him, daring him to enter. And Baldor hated it.

He was not used to fear. He had grown up; it seemed, on the battlefield. One would think he would have felt fear then. Fear when charging an enemy. Fear when waiting for reinforcements that might not arrive in time. But that was just his life. And all that seemed like mere anxiety now. That wasn't fear. Not gut wrenching, paralysing, unexplainable terror. This feeling of dread that was coming from the door was something new all together. It scared him in a way he couldn't explain. And it made him angry.

_No one_ could tell him where he could or couldn't go. _No one_ could say he could not pass his own lands, his father's lands, that he had watched hundreds of men die for. _No one ever_ forbade him to pass.

_'And there is nothing. Nothing to fear'_

Through the darkness, he walked The Paths.  
And The Paths claimed him.


End file.
